Chilly
by ProjectManhattan
Summary: Major Case gets a lead and Bobby isn't in the hottest mood. Very slight B/A overtones if you're into that sort of thing.


Cold.

So fucking cold outside today. The perp would choose a day like this to get himself tipped off to them, of course. In a place like this, a lovely place by the beach. By the damn beach! During the summer the place would be swarming with tourists, with beach balls and show cones and young girls in bikinis...

No, today he got to sit on the cold bench with his partner, listening to the cold ocean behind him, with his face about to freeze the hell off. It was a lot harder to resemble an inconspicuous, happily married couple relaxing at the water's edge when it was so damned cold outside.

Eames was keenly aware of her partner's frustration. For some reason, she found it cute. Cute that Bobby, the man who would happily sift through hours of videotape or volumes of gibberish for a single lead, would choose a half-hour in the cold when they were guaranteed the perp to get annoyed at.

She thought he was engrossed in some small detail in the gravel on the pavement, that he was looking away, and allowed herself a smile. She should have known better. Goren slowly turned toward her. He put his head in his hand, elbow on his leg, and made a face somewhere between a pout and a frown. He stared at her.

She brightened the smile. "Sorry," she said, unconvincingly.

He tapped his finger on his face, then suddenly stood up.

"Just can't sit still?"

He refrained from anything sudden, instead leaning his back against the bench behind Eames and staring out at the ocean.

"Is that him? Over there, at that hotdog stand..."

"Hm?" she asked, pretending to continue staring at her newspaper.

"Careful..." he muttered, still staring off at the horizon. It was early morning, the sun not yet high in the sky, with seagulls mulling around in the sand and the tide crashing rhythmically and peacefully...

What a day for a killer to get caught while buying a hotdog.

"Nobody's buzzed in yet" countered Eames, gesturing to the police walkie concealed in her jacket.

"I'm going for it," said Goren, pretending to watch someone jogging along and disrupting the seagulls.

"Funny. Wasn't the girl he whacked eating a hotdog when she died?" asked Eames. Goren turned around to face the stand, then looked at Eames and nodded. "It's poetic," he said, and watched the man gesture at what condiments he wanted.

Eames started to pick up the walkie, but he put his hand out. "Wait until I'm close, okay?"

Goren reached into his coat pocket, smiled, and pulled out a five dollar bill. Eames rolled her eyes and went back to the paper.

He stretched his arms out, wiggled his hands into his pockets, and strolled up to the stand. Once he was close enough Eames muttered the suspect's location into the walkie, decided against interrupting Goren's fun, and allowed herself to sit back and enjoy the show.

Goren reached the stand. The guy paid for his dog, and he clearly had no idea what was about to happen. Good.

Goren took out the five and waved it around in front of the man running the stand, who smiled nervously. He then tilted his head, shifting his weight around and staring at the list of condiments available. He looked at the vendor for a moment, then turned to the killer (who had already started munching).

"The mustard good?"

Mouth full, the man stared at Goren (as did the vendor).

"How about the relish?" he asked, gesturing to a glob of it that'd made its way onto the man's jacket.

"It, uh, it's... err, pretty good..."

Goren flashed a smile, a bit of a disturbing occurrence for the other two men.

Not nearly as scary for one of them as when he flashed his badge a second later, not changing his expression a fraction.

"As good as the jar we found smashed to pieces on the floor of Denise Spencer's apartment?"

The man froze for a second, then did the only thing he could think of doing. He threw his only weapon (the last of the hot dog) at Goren, then turned and sprinted as fast as he possibly could. This lasted for about three feet, then his grand escape was abruptly ended by simultaneous tackles from three undercover NYPD officers.

Once the man was in custody, Goren walked back over to Eames. The thrill of the chase was over, and he was starting to remember how damn cold it was.

She smiled up at him. He raised his eyebrows. She raised her hand, gesturing to a fair amount of mustard and relish that was starting to crust on Goren's expensive leather jacket.

"Thought I still smelled something." He shrugged. Eames beamed, and somehow managed not to laugh.

"What can I say?" he said, now smiling. "He was desperate."


End file.
